


The Haunting of McMann Pass

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Mysterious Ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-01
Updated: 2001-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:40:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	The Haunting of McMann Pass

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

The Haunting of McMann Pass by Charlotte D.

| 

_The Haunting of McMann Pass_

By Charlotte D. 

A _Highlander/Mysterious Ways_ crossover fanfic 

* * *

**Chapter One**

McMann Pass   
Outside Seacouver, Washington   
August 26, 2001 

The distant sound of a train whistle shrilled through the unusually quiet day. The train was still a good distance away, though. He wasn't certain how he knew that, he just did. 

With a sad sigh, he lay the toy train at the mouth of the tunnel. He came here often. Few people knew that, though. It was his secret. His. . .and Mikey's. 

He closed his blue eyes, willing away the remorse that often came with remembering. The train whistle sounded again, closer this time. "Think I can beat the train, Mikey?" he asked aloud, walking back to his motorcycle and reaching for the helmet that hung on the handlebars. He tugged if down over his blonde hair, fastening the chinstrap. 

He mounted the motorcycle, revving the engine several times before letting the bike coast from the gravel beside the train tracks and back onto the main highway. The train was getting closer. He could almost feel the ground beneath him trembling. The crossbars would lower soon. The caution lights would start to flash. 

He could see a car approaching in the distance. He wondered if he should try to race the train now. The last thing he needed was a witness if it went wrong. And it would eventually. The train would get him someday. Just like it got Mikey. . . 

_"Do it. Beat the train. . ."_

He could hear the words in his mind. He could hear Mikey's voice saying them. All he had to do was close his eyes to see the face of the mentally handicapped man. 

The caution lights had started to flash. The bars would lower in a second. The car approaching slowed, a beautiful black woman behind the wheel. He could see her through the windshield of her car. And he could see from her expression that she wasn't thrilled to be getting caught by the train. Had she wanted to beat it, too? 

"The _Coast Starlight,_ " he stated to himself, watching the train approach. "Passing through McMann Pass on its way to Los Angeles." 

A force inside of him--something beyond his control--made him punch the gas. His tires squealed loudly as he shot forward. He could smell burned rubber on the pavement. The woman in the car gasped in horror as she realized what he was doing. 

He gripped the handlebars tightly, barely controlling the bike as he flew towards the tracks, soaring over them. He had to lower his head to keep from being hit by the caution bars as they lowered. The woman in the car screamed as the train missed him by seconds. The engineer laid down on the horn and he knew the man was probably cursing him the entire time. 

His bike landed with a bone-jarring jolt on the other side of the tracks, the train rattling past as he raced away from it. 

_Beat the train. . .beat the train. . ._

The words played over and over in his mind as he left behind the tracks and the train that had claimed the life of Mikey Bellows. 

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Dr. Peggy Fowler gripped the steering wheel of her car, silently condemning the young fool who had nearly caused a tragedy before her very eyes. She had not driven all this way for a doctor's conference just to witness some stupid kid killing himself on an unnecessary risk like that one. 

A flashing red light on her dashboard caught her attention then and she groaned inwardly at the sight of the "Check Engine" light as it glowed back at her. Declan had insisted that she get her car serviced before making the long journey and she had intended to, but during the rush of packing and making arrangements for the conference, she had let it slip her mind. 

She willed the train to hurry and pass so she could hopefully make it to the next service station and see what the troubles were. The last car flew by her on the tracks and the crossbar slowly rose, allowing her to drive across. The engine of her car began to clatter then and she barely pulled it into the high grass on the side of the road before it died. 

She fished her cell phone from her purse, thankful that she had a good signal this far out. She dialed information and went through three phone numbers before finding a tow truck that would come and pick her up immediately. She hung up then and waited, rolling her window down to let some air in. 

It was a blazing hot day, though, and she soon realized that she had to get out of the sweltering car for her own health. She reluctantly left the vehicle, leaning against it and enjoying the slight breeze that stirred. 

She was suddenly gripped by a cold chill and the overwhelming feeling that she was no longer alone. She glanced around then. There was nothing around her save the railroad tracks and a train tunnel that she had not noticed before. She yelped in surprise when a man suddenly appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. He knelt and picked something up from the ground. He looked towards her then, raising a hand and tentatively waving. 

Peggy hesitated, unsure of him, but then offered a wave back. She couldn't tell much about him from this distance except that he was white and a little heavy set. His attire was sloppy, his shirt pulled free of his pants and hanging loose. 

"Are you lost?" he called out in a small, childlike voice. 

"No. My car has broken down." 

"Mikey knows trains, not cars," he insisted, fiercely shaking his head and turning back to the tunnel. 

"Wait!" Peggy called out, cautiously taking steps in his direction. She was surprised to see he had a sweet, round face. Guileless. In his hand he clutched a toy train and she realized that the toy was what he had picked up from the ground. "My name is Peggy." 

"Mikey," he grinned innocently. "My name is Mikey." 

She realized then that he was mentally handicapped and glanced around her surroundings to see who was with him. He couldn't be here alone! 

"Where are your friends, Mikey?" 

"Helen. . ." he whispered, his brow furrowing in thought. "Helen and Alan had to go away." 

"Are you here by yourself?" she pressed. 

"No, Mikey's never alone," he insisted, stroking his train. "Mikey has the trains. And Richie. Richie comes to see Mikey. Richie-Richie could fix your car. Richie knows how. Richie knows everything. Not like Mikey. Mikey's so stupid sometimes." 

"Please, don't say that," she implored. 

"Mikey forgets all the time. Not like Richie. Richie is Mikey's friend. Richie took Mikey to see the trains." 

"Is Richie around here?" she pressed glancing around but seeing only emptiness inside the tunnel. "Can I talk to him?" 

"No," he fiercely shook his head. "Richie just left. Richie has a bike. He let Mikey ride on it once." 

Peggy felt her anger mount then. So "Richie" was the young fool on the motorcycle who had nearly gotten himself killed. Had he left this mentally impaired man to fend for himself while he raced the train?! 

"Will you let me take you some place?" she gently hedged. "Maybe to your house?" 

"Mikey has to wait for Richie," he insisted, backing away from her as if in fright. "Mikey can't leave here. Mikey has to wait." 

"Wait for what? Richie to come back?" 

"Mikey has to tell Richie something," he declared. 

"Why don't we tell him together? Give me his phone number and we will call him." 

He suddenly pressed his hands to his head, declaring, "Mikey don't know! Mikey hates not knowing sometimes!" 

"Okay, okay," she tried to calm him. 

"Mikey has to tell Richie," he insisted. "He has to tell Richie." 

"Tell him what?" she pressed. 

"To beat the train," he stated, his eyes seeming to clear then. Logic and coherent thought were evident there and for a moment she thought he had only been faking his mental disability. In a clear, level voice he declared, "Richie has to beat the train. Mikey needs to go now." 

"Wait! Where are you going?" she called, watching as he turned and walked back inside the long, dark tunnel. From behind her, she heard a horn blow and she whirled around to see a truck pull beside her disabled car. A woman climbed from the passenger side and waved to her. She was torn between following Mikey or accepting the assistance of the couple. She reluctantly walked back to her car. 

"Looks like you're having car trouble," the man pointed out as he climbed from the truck. "Can we help?" 

"Hopefully," she smiled. "Are you from around here?" 

"Yes," his wife answered. "We live just up the road a piece." 

"Wonderful," she sighed in relief. "I'm Dr. Peggy Fowler, by the way. Thank you for stopping. My car broke down and then. . . There is a mentally disabled man in that train tunnel up there and I'm not sure what to do. Is he local? Do you know if he lives around here or if I should notify the authorities about him?" 

The couple exchanged a meaningful glance before the man inquired, "He's about middle aged? Balding? A little overweight?" 

"Yes," she nodded, relieved to have found someone who knew him. 

"That's Mikey Bellows. And, yes, I guess you could say he's something of a local," the man sneered. "A local legend." 

"I don't understand. . ." 

"A lot of people claim they see him in the tunnels," the woman explained. "But that's impossible. Mikey Bellows was killed in that tunnel six years ago today. He was beheaded by a train. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"This is unbelievable," Declan Dunn exclaimed, removing his glasses and cleaning them with his shirt tale as he paced before Peggy's desk. "Peg, you realize what happened here, don't you?" 

"Yes," she sighed. She had thankfully managed to return safe from her trip earlier that day, a good twelve hours later than she had hoped to be home thanks to her car troubles. "Someone is hiding in a train tunnel and pretending to be a dead man's ghost. It is sick and cruel." 

"No," he adamantly disagreed. "You encountered a ghost! _You!_ Peggy Fowler. Natural born skeptic was contacted by the spirit of a dead man. Do you know how amazing this is?" 

"I never should have told you," she sighed, rubbing her temples. 

"No," he insisted. "I am so happy you did. Just think about this for a moment, the local man and woman who stopped to help you said that people had seen Mikey in the past, but no one had actually spoken with him. Much less have him talk back to them. Peggy, he reached out to you. This ghost or spirit reached out to you." 

"Declan--" she began, only to be cut off. 

"Think about this for a second, the garage that towed your car said that nothing was wrong with it except it needed an oil change. Certainly nothing that would cause it to just die on you like that. On the day that this man died. It was the anniversary of his death and your car quit near the place he died. Face it, Peg, it was Fate. Or some supernatural force that meant for you to encounter him." 

"No, it was a coincidence that my car broke down there," she disagreed. "And it is possible that my car could have stalled because the engine got too hot. The mechanic said that was probably what happened. I had to sit there in the hot sun for sometime waiting on that train to pass. The engine overheated and stalled out. And someone was just playing a cruel joke by pretending to be the ghost of this man. That is all there is. Now, I want you to drop it." 

Declan watched her gather her papers and stroll from the office. "Drop it?" he asked the silence. "Sorry, Peg, but I can't." 

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"Here is everything I could find on Michael 'Mikey' Bellows," Miranda declared, letting a very thin file fall onto Declan's desk. 

"This is it?" he asked in disbelief, leafing through a few newspaper articles that recanted the train beheading. "No medical records? No school records?" 

"Not even a birth certificate," Miranda admitted. "It is almost like he didn't exist, Declan. He never attended any type of school. No record of his birth or who might have cared for him before he died. No medical history. Not even a dentist visit. He was arrested the day that he died. Apparently, he was wandering through the city and nearly got hit by a car. The police show up, he was irrational, and they arrested him. He was released to the care of a friend and was killed by a train later that day. However, one of those newspaper articles hinted that Mikey killed a cop before his death. The police never pressed the matter because, according to witnesses, the officers were manhandling Mikey and he pushed one of them away. The guy hit his own police car and broke his neck. The local police ruled it a tragic accident." 

"Why?" Declan asked. "Why not accuse Mikey of the cop's death?" 

"Who knows," Miranda shrugged. "Maybe they were hoping to avoid bad press. The police beating up a mentally handicapped man wouldn't go over too well with the press. The cop was dead. Mikey was killed by the train shortly thereafter. I guess ruling both deaths an accident was an easy out." 

"Why were the police trying to arrest Mikey again, anyway?" 

"After his first arrest, they ran his fingerprints in the system and learned that his prints had turned up at a murder scene. He was wanted in question with the death of two people, Alan and Helen Wells. Alan was, ironically, beheaded. Helen appeared to have been smothered to death. But an anonymous tip came in after Mikey's death claiming that someone named Tyler King killed Alan Wells. The police are still investigating that, though. 

"Anyhow, I did learn that Mikey had been accepted to a church-run facility in Greensville, Washington. A place called St. Simon's. His admission to this place was arranged by a Mr. Richard Ryan. Ryan is the same person who got Mikey out of jail the first time. And Ryan is the man who found him in the tunnels after the beheading and called the police. He later claimed the body, had Bellows cremated, and spread his ashes." 

"Where at?" Dunn asked. 

"Interestingly enough, Mikey's ashes were spread over the train tracks where he died." 

The sound of a voice being cleared startled them both and they turned to see Dr. Peggy Fowler standing in the door of Declan's office, clear disapproval in her frown. "I thought we agreed to let this thing about Mikey drop, Declan?" 

"Well, no, actually," he corrected, refusing to meet her eyes as he fumbled through the newspaper clippings. "You just asked. I never actually agreed." 

"This is ridiculous," Peggy stated in exasperation. "What are you hoping to prove here?" 

He pulled one of the articles from the thin folder, holding it out to her and asking, "Please look at the picture, Peg. Just tell me if it is the man you saw or not." 

She took the clipping from his hand, glancing down at the paper and stilling. She felt a cold chill race up her spine as she recognized the round, innocent face. It was not a good picture. In fact, it looked like a police mug shot to her, but she still knew the face. Her hands trembled as she handed the clipping back and moved to claim the chair opposite Declan. 

"That is the man I talked to," she finally admitted. 

"Not to freak you out anymore," Miranda added, reading one of the articles, "but according to this, Mikey was killed around the exact same time that your car stalled out as it crossed the tracks. The same time, on the same day. . . .You encountered him at the _literal_ anniversary of his death." 

"How-How can they know that?" Peggy stammered. "Unless someone was there to witness his death, then an autopsy could not establish the exact moment he died." 

"No, but the _Coast Starlight_ could," Miranda explained. "It was the train that killed him. The authorities were able to pinpoint the time that the train passed through the tunnel, giving them a very good estimation on his time of death. Ironically, the _Coast Starlight_ followed the exact same route the day you encountered Mikey's ghost. It went through McMann Pass at the same moment and on the same day as it had six years ago, when it killed Mikey." 

"This is too much," Peggy sighed, shaking her head. "I. . .What is the story behind his death? What happened, Declan?" 

He was quiet for a moment, shifting through the handful of articles before he began. "From what an anonymous caller told the police, this couple named Alan and Helen Wells had been taking care of him, but Alan was murdered by a Tyler King for reasons unknown. Mikey probably witnessed it and ran. 

"Ryan told the cops that he had been working on his motorcycle, he took it for a test run in the country, and that is how he encountered Mikey. He took him in because he realized he was alone with no one to take care of him. Mikey wandered off from Ryan's care and was arrested for public disturbance. The cops got his prints on file but he was later released back to Ryan. 

"After his release, the police managed to match his prints to those found at the scene of the Wells' killings. The police put out an APB on Mikey then because they thought he had something to do with the murders. At the same time, Ryan and a friend of his, Duncan MacLeod, were taking Mikey to a church-run school called St. Simon's. They claim they had car trouble and pulled off at a switching station. While they were working on the car, Mikey wandered off. And, boy, did he wander. Over a mile up the train tracks where he was beheaded by the _Coast Starlight._ Ryan found him and called the cops." 

"That story has more holes than a cheap suit," Miranda frowned. "How could two grown men not notice a person in their care 'wandering off'? Much less him going that far!" 

"Apparently the cops believed it," Declan stated. "In fact, Sergeant Len Powell was quoted as saying, 'I do not doubt this story. I have known Richie Ryan for many years and he can occasionally be some unpleasant things, but not—'" 

"Richie?" Peggy interrupted, her eyes widening. "Mikey said he was waiting on someone named Richie to come back for him. He said that he had to tell Richie something." 

"Maybe that's why his spirit hasn't passed on," he theorized. "He feels like he has some unfinished business here. Something to do with this Richie." 

"There was a man on a motorcycle who was racing the train the other day," Peggy recalled. "It almost hit him." 

"In his statement to the police, this Ryan said he had taken his bike for a test run the day he met Mikey," Dunn added, shuffling through the articles. "And. . .talk about weird, but a few days later a man's body was found beheaded at the switching station. None of this makes any sense. . ." 

"Maybe Richie Ryan can shed some light onto the subject," Miranda suggested. "It is Ryan that Mikey wants to say some final words to. Peggy, do you think it is possible that the guy on the bike at the tracks might have been none other than Richie Ryan? It was the anniversary of Mikey's death, maybe he came back." 

"He was racing the train," Peggy reminded. "And Mikey said he had to tell Richie to 'Beat the train'." 

Declan turned to his computer then, quietly searching for several minutes before asking, "Can you describe the guy's bike? Make? Model?" 

"I don't know," she shrugged. "It was a motorcycle. They all look the same to me." 

"How about color?" he pressed. 

"It was black," she recalled, closing her eyes as she tried to picture the motorcycle and its rider. "It had what looked like gold fire going down the sides. No, not fire. More like lightning bolts." 

"Bingo!" Declan announced, motioning to the monitor of his computer. "According to Washington's Department of Motor Vehicles, one Richard Ryan registered and bought a tag for a Harley Davidson seven months ago. The motorcycle is described as black with gold lightening bolts down the side." 

"Then Richie was the fool racing the train," Peggy realized. "Beat the train. . .that's what Mikey kept saying." 

"What are you thinking?" Declan pressed. 

"Maybe nothing," she shrugged. 

Miranda reached for the newspaper clippings, flipping through them until she found a photo of Richie Ryan. "Look at him," she declared. "He's. . . .he's beautiful. He's young and handsome. Probably has plenty of friends and is a very popular guy. Why would someone like that take in a mentally handicapped person they have known for only a few hours? And that story he told the police asked more questions than it answered." 

Declan turned to her then, questioning, "Okay, now what are _you_ thinking?" 

"I knew guys like him in high school," she spat, pointing to the picture of Ryan. "Gorgeous. Popular. Athletic. The 'in crowd', Declan. The guys who ostracized anyone who was different. The jerks who would be nice to a person like Mikey to their face and then laugh at them behind their backs. Or put them up to a stupid prank just to get them in trouble. That is what you are thinking, isn't it, Peggy? That Richie Ryan made some type of dare to Mikey on the tracks and it got him killed. 'Beat the train.' Ryan's joke ended with this poor man getting beheaded and MacLeod went along with the foolish story they told the cops to protect Richie from getting in trouble. Mikey can't rest because the person who caused his death never paid." 

"Either way, someone has to get to the bottom of why Mikey's ghost is haunting those tracks," Declan insisted. "And, according to my genesis computer hacking, Richie Ryan works at a bike shop in Seacouver. Let's give him a call." 

Declan reached for the phone, dialing the long distance number and waiting patiently. A gruff voice finally answered on the fourth ring, "Brent's Garage. What do you want?" 

"Uh, yes, I was hoping to speak with Richie Ryan, please," he requested. 

"Sorry, he's not working today. This is just his part-time gig," the voice stated. "You might try him at the dojo. He's usually there when he ain't here." 

"The dojo?" Dunn repeated. 

"Yeah. He manages the place for MacLeod," Brent snapped. 

"MacLeod? As in, Duncan MacLeod? Could you possibly give me that address?" Declan asked. He thanked the man then and hung up the phone, turning back to them. "Apparently, Ryan works for MacLeod." 

"It sounds like this Ryan and MacLeod are very close. Close enough to, perhaps, lie to protect each other," Peggy stated. "I agree with Miranda. There is no way two grown men taking care of a mentally disabled person wouldn't notice if he just walked away in broad daylight. Something doesn't add up here. When you make your arrangements for Seacouver, make them for me, as well. I want to know what this is all about, too." 

* * *

**Chapter Five**

DeSalvo's Dojo   
Seacouver, Washington 

Peggy Fowler and Declan Dunn stepped through the double doors of the dojo. The place was furnished with exercise equipment and weights, although neither would quite call it a gym. In the center of the room, a man was performing martial arts. He was so deep in a state of meditation that he never noticed them. 

Peggy took a step in his direction and her heels clicked on the hard wood floors, snapping his attention to her. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to interrupt--" 

"Claudia?" the man asked, his dark eyes taking in her face. 

"No," she corrected. 

Duncan MacLeod shook his head then, clearing it. He ran a hand through his dark hair that was dampened with sweat as he apologized, "I'm sorry. Of course you're not. You just bear a strong resemblance to a friend of mine." He reached for his shirt and the towel that was tossed aside, tugging the shirt over his bare chest and wiping the sweat from his face and hands before asking, "Can I help you?" 

"We were looking for Richie Ryan," Declan stated. 

The Scotsman's dark eyes narrowed and he stated rather than asked, "You're not friends of his. I know all of Rich's friends." 

"Forgive me," she apologized. "Where are my manners? My name is Dr. Peggy Fowler and this is my friend, Declan Dunn. Delcan is an anthropologist." 

"Duncan MacLeod," he stated, shaking both of their hands. "Is something wrong, Doctor, that you need to see Richie?" 

"No," she assured. "My friend and I were just hoping to talk with him about something." 

"Is he here?" Declan inquired. 

"Just missed him. He left about twenty minutes ago," Duncan stated. "But maybe I can help you." 

"You might," Declan acknowledged. "You see, I investigate the paranormal. You know, strange happenings, miraculous phenomenons, that sort of thing. I wanted to talk to Richie, and you as well, about Mikey Bellows." 

The handsome man stiffened visibly, his expression becoming shuddered as he stated, "There is nothing to tell. Mikey had a terrible accident six years ago." 

"Maybe you aren't aware of this, Mr. MacLeod, but some people claim that they have seen Mikey's ghost at the train tunnel where he died," Dunn stated. 

The Scotsman rolled his eyes, refuting, "That is a local myth started by a bunch of teenagers. Mikey is dead." 

"I've seen him," Peggy admitted. "Last week, I was in Seacouver on a doctor's conference. I know this sounds insane, Mr. MacLeod. I barely believe it myself. But I encountered him at McMann Pass. I. . .I even talked to him. He mentioned someone named Richie and when Declan did a little investigating, he learned who Richie was. We just want to talk to him, is all." 

"No," MacLeod stated through gritted teeth. He didn't like this at all. The last thing he or Richie needed was someone snooping around and asking questions about them or Mikey Bellows. He would warn Richie about this. Maybe even convince his friend to lay low or leave town for a few days. 

"Mr. MacLeod--" Declan began, only to be cut off. 

"Richie had a hard time dealing with Mikey's death," he snapped. "I won't have you dredging up painful memories for him. Leave him alone. And that is not a request. I think you two know the way out." He turned his back to them then and walked towards his office. 

"Let's go," Declan stated to her. 

"He's hiding something," she insisted. 

"I know," he assured, taking her arm as they left the dojo. Miranda waited in the parking lot for them. 

"How did it go?" she asked as they joined her. 

"Badly," Peggy related. 

"Yeah, we tried the direct and honest approach and it didn't work," Declan sighed. "I think now we try a not-so-direct and honest approach." 

"What are you thinking?" Peggy inquired. 

Declan let his eyes wander over Miranda's bike and he smiled at her, stating, "Let's you and I go have your motorcycle serviced. With any luck, Richie's working today. . ." 

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"Richie!" the loud, booming voice of a man who called himself Brent echoed around them, causing Declan to wince. He carefully climbed off the back of Miranda's bike and tugged off the suffocating helmet. 

"What?!" a voice called back. 

"Come look at this bike and see what the trouble is," Brent requested as he walked through the crowded garage. "I'll finish hammering out that fender." 

"Whatever you say, my friend. You're the boss," Richard Ryan assured, standing and stepping around the stack of tires to see the couple. 

Despite her better judgment, Miranda felt her breath catch at the sight of him. The photo in the newspaper had done him little justice. He was strikingly handsome in person. He had curly, red-blonde hair and a strong, lean face. He was well-built, too, like he worked out a lot. A dirty white T-shirt clung to his chest and torso like a second skin. His jeans were faded and torn, smudged with grease like he had wiped his hands on them too many times to count. 

He smiled as he approached them. He had a great smile, Miranda appreciated. It was disarming, almost. As well as the most intense blue eyes she had ever seen. He was much younger than she had thought he would be, though. Hadn't the DMV files suggested he was in his middle twenties? He barely looked eighteen to her. 

"Can I help you?" he asked Declan as he wiped his hands on a cloth and tucked it in his back pocket. 

"Uh, yes, I'm Declan Dunn and this is my friend, Miranda," he introduced, giving her a slight elbow in the ribs when she didn't respond. She jumped as if startled and then hastily tugged off her helmet, turning dark eyes to Ryan. 

"Richie Ryan," he nodded. "Uh, your bike?" 

"Oh, yeah, the bike," Declan recalled. "It's been making some weird noise. Kinda like, uh, buurrrrhhh. No, that's not quite it--" 

Richie smiled then, holding up a hand to ward off the rest as he chuckled. "Why don't I just take a look at it? There's a lounge just through that door over there if you'd like to get a cup of coffee." 

"Sure," Declan nodded, taking Miranda's elbow and steering her towards the door. He let his gaze drift across the garage then finally falling on a shiny black bike that was parked several feet from them. It fit the description of what Peggy had given them, right down to the gold lightening bolts on the side. Yes, they had certainly found Mikey's "Richie". 

They stepped into the small lounge then and he poured a cup of the coffee that looked and tasted more like corroded oil to him. He grimaced, setting it down and moving to stand behind Miranda. The lounge had a small window in it and she stared through the dirty glass at Ryan as he worked on her bike. 

"He's not what I expected," Declan admitted. 

"Me, either," she agreed. He didn't seem to have that cocky air about him that the kids who had mocked and teased her in school had. He seemed almost genuine. Real. He was nothing like the high school jock who had once asked her to the school dance just to stand her up and then laugh about it later with his friends. 

"I thought he would be. . .older," he insisted. 

"I'll be back," Miranda announced, stepping back from the tiny lounge and into the open garage. Ryan glanced up at her briefly and then went back to his work. She casually made her way to his bike. 

"This is a beauty," she called out. "Is it for sale?" 

"Not on your life," Richie laughed. "It took me months to restore that baby." 

"You did this yourself?" she asked in surprise. 

"In my spare time, which isn't much in between this place and my other job," he related. "I found your problem, Miss. . .?" 

"Miranda," she supplied. "Just call me Miranda." 

"Okay, Miranda," he stated. "There was some trash clogging your fuel line. I cleaned it out for you. You know, if I didn't know any better, I would almost say someone had done it on purpose." 

"Why would anyone do that?" Declan butted in as he stepped from the tiny lounge. 

"You tell me?" Ryan challenged, looking him in the eye. "How did you two hear about this garage anyhow?" 

"What do you mean?" Declan asked warily. 

"We're just not a big operation, is all," Richie shrugged. "In fact, unless you run the circuit with me and Brent, most people don't even know about this place." 

"The circuit?" he repeated. 

"The racing circuit," Miranda guessed. "Richie and Brent do a little racing on the side." 

Richie seemed to relax a little then, nodding. "We have some fun with it on the weekends. I don't recall seeing you at the tracks, though. And I know almost everyone there." 

"We're new in town," she declared. "We were hoping to get into some of the races." 

"Who sent you?" Ryan pressed. 

"Mikey," Miranda replied, watching him closely. Some of the light seemed to drain from his blue eyes and an old, haunting pain replaced it. 

"Mikey," he whispered softly. "You mean, Mike, don't you? Mike Barrett?" 

"Yeah," she lied. "Mike told us all about it. He even invited us." 

Richie let his eyes dart to the boyfriend, he assumed. He looked like he couldn't race his way out of a wet paper bag. But the girl. . .well, she was one he could picture traveling in his circles. "Mike is hardly the person to get you into the circuit around here. It's a legit setup, but Brent and I are careful about who we include. But if Mike recommends you, then that makes you cool with me. But you didn't have to sabotage your bike just to get an invite. You could have just asked me." 

"When and where then?" Miranda pressed. 

"We will talk the details over later," he suggested, reaching for a pen and scribbling something down on the back of an old invoice. "It's the address to a bar I go to a lot. Meet me there tonight and we'll see what we can work out." 

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Joe's Bar 

"Hey, Rich," Joe Dawson greeted, watching as his friend strolled through the door of his blue's bar. 

"Hi, Joe," Ryan smiled. "How's it going?" 

"You tell me," Dawson suggested, propping on the polished surface of the bar as he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "MacLeod has been looking for you. He seemed kinda worried. Trouble?" 

"Not that I know of," he shook his head. "I'm just here to meet someone." 

Dawson tossed him a relieved grin, reaching for a bottle of beer and twisting the top off it. "Let me guess. A woman." 

Richie gave his heart-stopping smile in reply, glancing around the bar. In the far corner he spotted Miranda, nodding towards her. "And she's already here." 

Joe followed his gaze, stilling in surprise as he eyed the stoic, somber young woman. She was dressed all in black and had said very little to anyone since her arrival. She obviously felt as out of place in his blues nightclub as she looked. "That's who you're meeting this evening?" he asked, handing Richie the cold beer. 

He took a drink from the long neck bottle, replying, "Yeah. Why?" 

"She just doesn't seem like your usual type is all," Joe shrugged. 

"And what is my usual 'type'?" he curiously inquired. 

"Long-legged, peppy, super model types. Come on, Rich," Dawson chuckled. "You have a string of ex-girlfriends that look like some men's wish list. Hell, even an old man like me has appreciated some of them. Like that model in Paris." 

"We were never a couple and she nearly got me killed," Richie corrected. 

"Then the redhead. The singer," he suggested. 

"Dumped me for a record producer after I chased that psycho Ursa through the sewers of Paris to rescue her." 

"The French Baron's granddaughter," Dawson reminded. "Marina." 

"She drugged and kidnapped me. Twice!" Richie declared, holding up two fingers for emphasis. 

"True, but you can't tell me you didn't have some fun in the process," Joe teased. 

"Yeah, it was fun. Right up until it ended. You know, maybe you've got a point, Joe," he declared, slapping his friend on the shoulder. "I've been dating the wrong type of women." 

The older man chuckled, stating, "Mac said for me to call him if I saw you and I promised I would." 

Richie nodded, replying, "Tell him I'll be here most of the night if something's up and he needs to talk about it." 

He collected his drink and moved towards Miranda. He tugged off his black leather jacket and hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down. "Can I buy you a drink?" he offered. 

"No," she shook her head, nervously toying with the edge of a napkin. Richie had showered and changed before coming to the bar. She could smell the scent of soap on him and his hair, still damp from the shower, looked several shades darker. 

"Your boyfriend didn't come with you?" he asked, glancing around the room for any sign of the man he had met earlier that day. 

"My. . .? You mean Declan?" she realized. "No. I mean, no he's not my boyfriend and he didn't come with me." 

She had convinced him not to. And he had reluctantly agreed that she might be able to get more out of Ryan if they were alone. 

He chuckled then, stating softly, "He didn't strike me as a man who spends a lot of time in bars or racetracks. Anyhow, how much experience do you have?" 

"Excuse me?" she inquired. 

"Racing," he clarified. "Have you done much motorcycle racing in the past? Brent's setup is for amateurs only. Sort of a stepping stone to the pros." 

"I haven't done any racing before, actually," she admitted. "You?" 

The question took him by surprise and he answered, "I've done a little amateur and pro in the past. I don't race much anymore, though. I usually just help Brent out on the circuit. You know, getting races set up." 

"Why don't you race anymore?" she pressed. 

"Long story," he shrugged, studying his drink. "What about you? What got you interested in it?" 

"I've been thinking about it for awhile," she lied. "I've always loved motorcycles." 

"Racing is a world different from taking a Sunday drive on the back of a hog," Richie warned. "It's a cutthroat business. Being a woman with absolutely no experience won't help your cause, either. But if you're serious, I will do whatever I can to help you out." 

He surprised her by that and she turned unyielding eyes to him, demanding, "Why?" 

Richie shook his head in bewilderment. It was obvious by her reaction to him that she didn't like or trust him, yet she had came to him instead of Brent to get into the circuit. "Maybe because I'm a nice guy," he drawled. 

She made a disbelieving sound at that, rolling her eyes. He reached for his drink then, taking a sip and muttering something that sounded like "spoiled princess". 

"Excuse me?" Miranda demanded. 

"I said you remind me of a spoiled little princess I went to high school with," he stated. 

"And you remind me of a jerk I went to school with," she shot back, refusing to back down. 

Richie leaned back in his chair, eyeing her as he related, "This girl was a real piece of work. Her daddy was filthy rich and gave her anything she wanted, but she was always whining about how he never paid her enough attention. She thought that everyone else should be like him. We were supposed to give her whatever she wanted just because she wanted it, despite the fact that she treated us like inferiors. She sat on her high horse and looked down her surgically straightened nose at those of us who weren't as rich or smart as her. Sound familiar?" 

Miranda stiffened. He was certainly right about her wealthy family and her neglected childhood. 

"That bike you were driving is one of the most expensive on the market," he continued. "You dress to make a statement, I assume, but the only statement I see is the French designer's name on your clothes. Nice earrings, too. Are those real diamonds? A present from Daddy?" 

"For my sixteenth birthday," she shot back. 

"Figures," he muttered. "Look, princess, I'm not your daddy and I am not going to give you anything. You want on the circuit; you make your own name there. All I'm saying is I will speak for you and get you a trial run. The rest is your problem. Besides, why is a rich girl like you wanting to race anyhow? Some new plot to get Daddy's attention, right?" 

"I like bikes," she snapped. "They were my escape. Not that you would understand what it's like to be different." 

Richie released a shot bark of laughter, taking a drink from the bottle as he muttered, "Oh, I know all about that one." 

"You?" she challenged. "I bet you are loved by everyone. At the tracks, you probably have the girls hanging off of you. I imagine your high school buddies voted you most popular and most likely to succeed--" 

His laughter cut her off. He chuckled until tears of mirth ran down his cheeks. "You know nothing about me," he assured. "I wasn't voted anything in high school, except maybe most likely to end up on death row by the time I was thirty. Of course they couldn't vote for me in my senior year because I never had a senior year. I dropped out." 

"Why?" she asked, surprised by his admission. 

Richie offered a nonchalant shrug. "Kinda hard to make classes when you're living on the streets." 

"Why. . .Your family? Did you run away or. . .?" 

"I never knew my parents," he stated. "It was just me and the system and a long string of lousy foster homes. You see, that was why I resented this little spoiled girl so much. She was always complaining about her family. At least she had one. You spend enough nights sleeping on a park bench and you wouldn't care how little attention daddy paid to you. You would appreciate just having a place to sleep." 

"But you turned out okay," Miranda stated the obvious. 

"I had help," he confessed. "When I was seventeen, this nice couple took me in. I worked at their antique store and they let me stay at their place for awhile. I got my GED eventually. And I still work for him, only not at his store." 

_Duncan MacLeod,_ Miranda realized. MacLeod was the one who had taken Richie in off the streets. "What about the woman? You said a couple took you in." 

"She died several years ago," he admitted. "And my friend sold their antique store and bought a dojo." 

Ryan's voice broke off then and he sat straighter in his chair, his eyes scanning the room as if he were suddenly expecting someone. A tall, handsome man with dark hair stepped through the door and glanced around. "I'll be right back," Richie said to her. 

He made his way across the room to Duncan MacLeod, asking, "What's up, Mac? Joe said you've been looking for me." 

"We could have trouble," MacLeod admitted, taking his arm and steering him towards the bar. He motioned for Dawson to join them, beginning, "I had a visit today by a man named Declan Dunn and his friend, Peggy Fowler. They wanted to talk about Mikey Bellows." 

Richie gasped, looking like he had been slapped. "What do they want?" 

"This legend that someone created about Mikey haunting the train tunnels," the Scotsman sighed. "These two are ghost hunters, basically. They're snooping around and asking questions." 

"So tell them a condensed version of what you know and get them off your backs," Dawson suggested. 

"It's a college professor and a doctor, Joe," he explained. "The more answers you give them the more questions they ask. Richie, you and I cannot afford people snooping around in our backgrounds." 

"I know," Ryan acknowledged. "But don't worry, Mac. I won't talk to them. I will avoid them at all costs." 

"Avoiding them isn't going to make them go away, Rich," he sighed. "If anything, it will make them more persistent. Maybe. . .maybe you should leave town for awhile. Hell, maybe we both should. Amanda's in Paris. We could visit her for a few years." 

"MacLeod," he scolded. 

"All right, you don't want France. How about London instead? It's a big city. Easy to get lost in for a few decades. We can spare it," he joked. 

"I have a nice life here, Mac," Richie insisted. "I'd like to live it for a while longer, if at all possible." 

The Scotsman sighed, relenting. "Then just leave town for a week or two. I'm sure they will get bored and move onto something else. Just for a little while, Rich." 

"Okay," he gave in. "But I can't leave right now. I've got a huge race lined up for Friday night." 

"Then I'll make plans for us to leave Saturday," Duncan agreed. 

"And I will check into these two ghost hunters," Dawson volunteered. "See what their story is." 

"Thanks, Joe," MacLeod stated. "See ya later, Rich." 

"Later," he promised, watching his friend leave before he turned away from the bar and moved back to his table. 

"Something wrong?" Miranda inquired. 

"Nah," he shook his head. "Listen, if you want that chance, be at the tracks Friday night. I will introduce you to some people. Maybe get a trial run set up. I'll see you then." 

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"I don't believe he caused Mikey's death intentionally," Miranda insisted, pacing the floor of her hotel room. "He just doesn't seem the type. You know, he admitted to me that he was living on the streets at one point in his life until MacLeod took him in. Maybe that's why he took Mikey in. One good turn deserves another." 

"He did arrange for Mikey to be accepted at this St. Simon's," Peggy admitted. "I checked it out and it is an up-scale place. They would have taken good care of him." 

"So Richie Ryan is a good guy then," Declan stated. "But Duncan MacLeod has an interesting past. I did a little check on him today. His name has turned up in a stack of unsolved police files from here to Paris and back again. Like Mikey, there is no solid proof of his background, either. A string of 'rare coincidences' like fires and floods erased all proof of his childhood. No, this guy isn't right. Maybe. . .maybe he had something to do with Mikey's death. Or the death of that cop at the switching station the same day Mikey died. Richie could be covering for him out of loyalty." 

"What about Richie?" Peggy asked. "Any background on him?" 

"Tons," he assured. "I had to do a little not-so-legal hacking to get some of it, though. He was an abandoned baby. He was probably only a few hours old when he was found by hikers in the forest on the Richards Trail. Hence the name they gave him, Richard. His first foster family was the Ryan's, he took their last name. He was returned to the orphanage when Emily Ryan died. Her husband, Jack, had already left her by then. Richie was in and out of foster homes and orphanages after that. Arrested many times as a juvenile. Pretty much a troubled kid, until this MacLeod took him in. Since then he's been fairly straight and narrow. A few brushes with the cops, like the thing with Mikey, but nothing serious in years." 

"He wants me to meet him at the tracks Friday," Miranda admitted. "He thinks I want to join the racing circuit. I don't like lying to him, Declan." 

"Then maybe we shouldn't," he suggested. "Maybe we should all three go to the tracks Friday and tell him the truth. About us and about Mikey." 

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Declan, Peggy, and Miranda stood at the top of the old, rusty metal bleachers, watching as a dirt bike sped the empty course below. Richie Ryan drove like a professional racer. He took the narrow turns at an impossibly fast speed, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust behind him. 

"He's crazy," Peggy declared, grimacing when he nearly lost control in one turn. Instead of slowing through, he sped up. 

"He certainly takes risks," Declan agreed. "Maybe he just likes to be wild." 

"No," Miranda realized. "He's free." 

"What?" Declan asked. 

"On the tracks, he's free," she explained. "Nothing can touch him there. No fears. No worries. It's where he goes to be free." 

"I wonder why he doesn't race professionally," Declan pondered. 

"He use to," a new voice added and the trio turned to see that Brent from the garage had joined their group. "He was damn good, too. He raced here for awhile, but no one was a match for him. He moved on. Nailed Long Beach. Then he went to Paris. I heard he had joined a major racing team, but then he just showed up in Seacouver one day. Said it hadn't worked out. Anyhow, you're Miranda, right?" 

"Yes," she nodded. 

"Richie said to bring you down to the pits when you arrived," he stated, silently motioning for her to follow him. 

Peggy watched the two walk down the bleachers before she turned to Declan. "I wonder why Ryan's racing career flopped. Yoo-hoo, Declan," she waved a hand in front of his face. "Are you listening to me?" 

"When I looked into Ryan's past, I found a French newspaper article on-line about an American motorcycle racer who had died in Paris. He died when he wrecked during a race. I didn't pay much attention to the article at the time because I figured. . .I mean, it couldn't be possible. . ." he insisted. 

"What isn't?" she asked in confusion. 

"The rider was referred to as 'the most promising rookie to ever die'. His name was Ryan," he revealed. "Richard Ryan." 

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Richie Ryan took the final turn at a blazing speed. He had nearly lost it there the previous lap, but this time he nailed it to perfection. Satisfied, he gradually began to slow his bike, rolling to a stop near the pit. He tugged off his helmet, hopping off the bike as the crew moved to service it. 

"That front wheel is still a little shaky on the turns," he stated. 

"We'll see to it," the man assured. "There's someone waiting for you." 

Richie turned then to see Miranda standing several feet away. He smiled at her as he walked to her side. 

"You were great out there," she admitted. "You should definitely race more." 

"It wouldn't be fair to the others," he teased. "This is an amateur course. I'm a pro." 

"You really are," she insisted. 

He looked embarrassed by the praise, insisting, "You'll be driving like that yourself someday." 

"Actually, I have to talk to you about that, Richie," she hesitantly began. "I. . .I'm not really a racer." 

"I know," he nodded. "You told me you have no real experience at it." 

"No, I mean, I never had intentions of joining the circuit. I am really the assistant to an anthropologist named Declan Dunn. You met him at the garage. He investigates--" 

"I don't believe this," he spat, interrupting her. Fury filled his eyes as they bore into her, making her take a hesitant step backwards. "MacLeod warned me. . .Dammit! What do you people want?!" 

"We don't want to hurt you," she insisted. "We are just trying to help. Mikey--" 

"Mikey is dead!" he shouted at her. "He's dead! I watched him die on those damn tracks." 

The admission stunned her for a moment. Hadn't Ryan told the police that he had gotten there after the fact? "My friend has seen his ghost or his presence, or whatever you want to call it," she revealed. "He had a message for you, Richie." 

"I'm not going to listen to this," he refused, turning to walk away from her. 

"He wants you to beat the train," she called out to his retreating back. He stopped then and turned slowly, his face deathly pale. "That is what he told her. You had to beat the train." 

Richie closed his eyes then. _Beat the train._ Those where the words he always heard in his mind whenever he went near the tracks. In the distance, he thought he heard the shrill whistle of a train. "The _Coast Starlight,_ " he whispered mostly to himself. "She's coming through again tonight." 

He moved then, tossing aside his helmet as his long strides carried him to his Harley that was parked nearby. He swung a leg over his bike, cranking the engine and doing an abrupt U-turn. His tires spun as he raced towards McMann Pass. 

"Richie!" Miranda screamed after him. "Oh, God, what I have I done?" 

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in." 

Declan turned at the voice, watching as Duncan MacLeod and another man approached them. The gentleman with him was older, with gray hair and walked with the assistance of a cane. 

"I thought I told you to leave Richie alone," MacLeod reminded. 

"We're just here to watch the races," Declan stated. "No harm in that." 

"Where's the other one?" Joe Dawson questioned. 

"Excuse me?" Peggy asked. 

"The dark haired girl," Dawson stated. "Silent. Brooding." 

After MacLeod's warning at the bar, he had found himself growing more and more suspicious of the woman. A young, good-looking kid like Richie drew women like sugar attracted flies, but she had not seemed overly interested in romance that night. So he had his organization, The Watchers, check her out as well as Dunn and Fowler. He hadn't been surprised to realize that she was connected to the other two. 

"Their friend, partner, whatever she is, was with Richie at the bar the other night," Dawson explained to the Highlander. The muscles in MacLeod's jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth. He cursed his own foolishness in misjudging them. He should have considered a third party that might have gone straight to Ryan. 

"Declan!" Miranda called out, racing towards them with a motorcycle helmet in hand. "He's gone. I was trying to explain to him and he got furious and drove off--" 

"This is Richie's," Duncan realized, snatching the helmet from her. "Where is he?" 

"I don't know," she admitted, visibly worried. "I was trying to talk to him about Mikey and he said something about the _Coast Starlight_ and he got on his bike and left." 

"Dammit," MacLeod cursed, turning to Dawson. 

Joe could see the fear in the face of the Scottish warrior and he felt dread start to churn in his own stomach. He knew the truth about Mikey's death. He was one of the few who did. "Mac," he stated, horrified at his own thoughts. "He wouldn't. . . ." 

"Let's go," Duncan barked, turning and racing back towards his black T-Bird. Dawson followed as fast as his prosthetic legs would allow. 

"The _Coast Starlight,_ " Declan repeated. "That was the train that killed Mikey." 

"I've got to go," Miranda realized, hastily running towards her bike. She hopped on it, taking a moment to tug her helmet in place before she cranked the engine and sped away, following Richie. 

She drove on instinct mostly, following the same path that Ryan had taken. His wheels had left an easy trail to follow until he had reached the woods. He knew the area and the quickest way to McMann Pass while she was clueless. The roots and rocks of the forest ground forced her to slow her path and too often hid Ryan's trail. Yet something inside her seemed to push her forward. It guided her along the same trail he had taken. She breathed in relief when she saw a figure silhouetted in the distance. Richie Ryan sat at the top of a high hill, his bike stopped, but the engine still running. She drove to his side, stopping and turning her attention to him. 

He didn't notice her, though. He was staring down the sharp incline and she turned her head to see what drew his attention. A wide ravine lay at the bottom of the hill, with no visible means of crossing it except to jump. He revved the engine of his Harley several times and she realized what he was about to do. 

"Don't do this," she called out to him. "Richie, please!" 

He turned his face to her for a mere second, his eyes distant and haunted, and then he gunned the engine. Miranda screamed as she watched his motorcycle propel itself down the hill and towards the ravine. The wind slicked his blonde curls from his face as he raced towards the gulf at a speed she knew had to be eighty or more. He soared across it like he had wings, landing on the other side with a jolt. He hit a patch of pine needles then and the bike slid out from under him. She watched in horror as he was propelled from the Harley and slammed into a tree trunk with a sickening crunch. The motorcycle slid on its side for several feet before coming to a stop, the wheels still spinning. 

She sat in stunned silence for a moment, unable to believe what she had just seen. And knowing there was only one thing she could do. She shot the gas then, following his course. The breeze blew against her as she built speed, gritting her teeth in fear as she closed in on the ravine. She squeezed her eyes closed as she felt her bike leave the ground and kept them closed until she landed on the other side with a bone-jarring jolt. Her eyes flew open in surprised disbelief and she turned at the last moment and narrowly avoided the slick pine needles. She stopped the bike as quickly as she could, letting it fall on its side as she tugged off her helmet and hastily ran to Richie's side. 

He lay face down in a puddle of blood and leaves at the foot of the tree. His blonde hair was soaked red with blood and it took only one look to realize the back of his skull was crushed from where he had hit the tree. She felt for a pulse, even though she knew it was futile. There was none. Richie Ryan was dead. 

"You stupid fool," she wept, gently rolling him over and cradling him in her arms. "What where you thinking? No helmet. . .jumping that ravine. . ." 

She cradled his handsome face in her hands, tears slipping from her eyes as she kissed his forehead. He was already getting cold, the warmth steadily draining from his body. 

"I'm sorry, Richie," she whispered. "I never meant for this to happen. Please, don't die. Please. . ." 

The body in her arms suddenly drew a deep, rattling breath and she gasped in fright and disbelief as those blue eyes popped open. Ryan rolled out of her embrace, holding the back of his head as he sat up and cursed, "Damn." 

Richie noticed her and her horrified expression before adding, "Double damn." 

Realization dawned on him as he glanced between her and the ravine and then to her overturned bike. "You jumped it!" he declared. "Are you crazy, woman?! Are you trying to get killed here!" 

"No, no, this is wrong," Miranda babbled, running a hand through her black hair. "You-you were dead." 

"Do I look dead?" he snapped. 

"This. . .this is a miracle," she breathed in amazement, moving to him. She hesitated but then slid a hand into his thick hair. She could still feel the sticky blood in his curls, but his head wound was gone. Healed completely. She couldn't even feel a scalp laceration. "You were dead and. . .and now you're not. It's a miracle. Declan will--" 

"No," he interrupted, pulling her hand free of his hair and reaching for the other. He held them both in a strong grip as his eyes bore into her. "You can't tell anyone about this, Miranda. I-I just had a little bike accident is all. Yes, I blacked out for a few minutes, but I'm okay now." 

"You were dead!" she insisted. "And now you're not. Don't you want to know why?" 

Richie sighed in defeat, realizing the only thing he could do was tell her the truth. "I already know why. I'm an Immortal." 

"A-A what?" she stammered, clear disbelief in her serious face. 

"I'm Immortal," he repeated. "I can't die." 

"But you just did!" she insisted. 

"Technically--Listen, it's hard to explain," he sighed. "I can't die like most men. Yes, I bleed, I break, and occasionally something does 'kill' me. I just don't stay dead." 

"Nothing can kill you?" she asked. 

"One thing can. If. . . .if my head is severed from my body, then I die forever," he admitted. 

"A beheading," Miranda realized. "Like. . .like Mikey's?" 

Richie released a very weary sigh, sitting back on his haunches in the leaves as he took her hands and explained. "I met MacLeod when I was seventeen. The short version of it is that I saw him kill this guy by chopping off his head. And then this weird lightening--then again, let's not get into that part right now. Mac explained to me that he was an Immortal. And that there were others like him and they fought something called The Game. 

"You see, Miranda, we sword fight to the death. When we take another Immortal's head, we also take his power and his knowledge and his wisdom. That is called The Quickening. That was what I witnessed that night, so many years ago. As it turned out, Mac was four hundred years old. He had lived in the Highlands of Scotland. He belonged to the Clan MacLeod. Only, one day, during a battle with another clan, someone killed him. But he didn't die. He remained the same for four hundred years. He has not aged a day since the moment of his first death. 

"I. . .I didn't realize that I was like him. He did, though. He sensed my Immortality, but I didn't know it because I hadn't died my first death yet. I did nearly two years after I met him. One night, a junkie shot me and Mac's fiancée, Tessa, to death during a robbery. I was nineteen years old. Dead at nineteen. Only. . .only I didn't stay dead." 

"You-you came back as one of these Immortals?" she rationalized. 

"Yes. I will never age. I will look like a teenager forever. Assuming I live forever that is. There can be only one, honey. One Immortal left in the end. We fight each other to the death for the honor of being that One. And the one left in the end will have all the knowledge and power of the other Immortals. Enough power to rule the world. That is why we exist and that is why we fight and take heads." 

"But you and MacLeod?" she questioned. "Why haven't you killed one another yet?" 

"Not all Immortals are out to kill each other," Richie assured. "Some of us just want to be left alone to live our lives in peace. There are others--the headhunters--who go out looking for fights. But Duncan is my friend. He's my teacher as well. He taught me the rules of The Game and how to survive as an Immortal. I have no desire to challenge him to a death duel." 

"Mikey?" she asked, watching as the haunted pain returned to his eyes. 

"Mikey was an Immortal, too," he explained. "I was test driving my bike outside of town one afternoon, and I felt another Immortal's presence." 

"Felt? Presence?" she asked in confusion. 

He sighed, searching for the right words as he finally explained, "Think of it as a weird type of ESP. I can sense another Immortal when I encounter him or her. Anyway, Mikey was hiding in the woods beside the road. He was rambling about trains and that he was hungry. I could tell that he had a mental disability, so I took him with me. We went back to MacLeod's place. I thought Mac and I could help him somehow. Only there was this headhunter named Tyler King who was after Mikey. While I was talking to some social workers, King came to MacLeod's place to kill Mikey. Mac and King started to fight and Mikey panicked and ran. 

"He got arrested when the cops found him wandering the streets. Mac and I got him out of jail and I arranged for him to go to this place, St. Simon's. It was run by a church, so it was on Holy Ground. You see, Miranda, Holy Ground is the only place an Immortal is safe. One of the rules we live by is that we cannot fight on Holy Ground. Mikey would have been safe there. Only the cops matched his fingerprints to a murder and they came after him." 

"The cops found him at the switching station," Miranda stated. At his surprised look, she explained, "I researched all the articles on him." 

"It was the only way I could get him to agree to go St. Simon's," he admitted with a sad smile. "I had to promise to take him by the switching station and let him see the trains. Only King showed up there. MacLeod challenged him and they went off to fight." 

"The other headless body found at the station a few days later," she concluded. 

He nodded. "While they were fighting, the cops showed up. They pulled their guns and started shouting. Mikey. . .he just freaked. He wouldn't listen to me and the cops wouldn't let me go to him and calm him down. They went after him instead and he fought them. He slammed one of cop's heads through the window of his car. It broke his neck and killed him. I. . .I didn't realize the cop was dead. I just took Mikey and told him we had to get away from the station. 

"We followed the tracks up to McMann Pass and waited on MacLeod. When Duncan got there, he started asking Mikey questions about King. As it turns out, Alan Wells was an Immortal, too. He had taken Mikey in, like I had, and had been taking care of him." 

"Until this King showed up and challenged him," Miranda finished. "King killed Alan Wells and then killed his wife, Helen." 

"No," Richie whispered on a raw voice. "King did kill Wells. . . .B-But Alan had told Mikey to keep Helen away from the fight and to make sure she stayed quiet. When she saw her husband about to die, she tried to get to him. She was screaming and Mikey. . .he just. . .he just tried to keep her quiet by putting his hand over her mouth." 

"He smothered her to death," Miranda recalled the article. 

"He didn't mean to, but he did. Yes, he did. And he didn't mean to kill that cop, either. He wasn't evil, Miranda. But he was dangerous. He didn't even realize it. He was physically strong and sometimes he used that against people without meaning to. There was no place for him," the tormented young man admitted. "He had killed a cop. They were never going to stop looking for him. I could have hid him for awhile and maybe even kept him out of trouble, but eventually the police would have found him. He was Immortal. He couldn't stay locked up forever. There was just no place for him. . ." 

"Did you take his head?" she asked. 

Tears stung his eyes as he admitted, "I was going to. I led him into the tunnels. He was so excited because he could hear the train in the distance. When he turned around to face me, I took out my sword. He realized what I was going to do. He started telling me he was sorry. That he hadn't meant to hurt anyone. I told him I knew. Then," his voice cracked with the memory, "then he dropped to his knees and laid his head on the tracks. There was this amazing clarity in his eyes at that moment. It was like he was protecting me from actually having to kill him myself. He didn't want me to have to live with that. He said he was going to see the 'King of Trains'. I stood against the wall and waited for the train. I didn't want him to die in that tunnel alone, so I stayed." 

"And you've lived with the memory ever since," she realized, impulsively reaching for him. 

Richie accepted her embrace. He hadn't realized he was trembling until her arms encircled him. He returned the fierce hug, burying his face in her soft hair as he admitted, "I wish there was something else I could have done. A way so that he didn't have to die." 

"I know," Miranda assured him. 

"And now," he sighed, pulling away from her as he stood and walked back to his bike. "Now he's out there somewhere. His spirit can't rest because of me." 

She stood as well, walking behind him and laying a consoling hand on his arm. "Maybe not, Richie. There could be some other explanation." 

"Beat the train," he softly repeated. "That's what he says to me every time I'm near those tracks. It is like I can still feel him there. I can hear his voice in my head. It's Mikey at those tracks." He groaned then, running both hands through his hair as he admitted, "I asked MacLeod once if he believed in ghost. He said he believed in the kind you carried with you. The people you've loved and lost. And the ones you kill. They stay with you. They haunt you, Miranda." 

"No," she disagreed. "I don't think they haunt you. I think you haunt them." 

"What do you mean?" he asked, turning back to her. 

"You are the one who can't let go, Richie. _You_ are what is holding Mikey here. I think he wants you to let go. Beat the train. That is what he said," she reminded. "That is what he wants you to do." 

"I don't have a clue how to do that," the young Immortal admitted. 

"Maybe it was the train that actually took his life, but you feel responsible. Deep inside, you feel like you killed him," she rationalized. "The train is symbolic to you now. It's like your personal demon. Mikey wants you to beat that demon. He wants you to let go. Where were you going tonight, Richie?" 

"To the tracks," he admitted. "The train comes through tonight." 

"It would be the perfect time to say good-bye," she pressed. "I'll go with you." 

He hesitated before finally nodding. In silence, they collected their bikes and drove the remaining short distance to the tunnel. Ryan parked just outside of it, his haunted eyes staring into the dark abyss. Miranda swung off her bike and walked to him. He started when she lay a hand on his shoulder. 

"If you want to go inside the tunnel, I'll go with you," she volunteered. 

He gave her a small, grateful smile before shaking his head. "I think I have to do this one alone." 

He forced his reluctant body off the motorcycle and let his strides carry him to the pitch black tunnel. He had came here often, but he had never actually set foot inside since that fateful day six years ago. He forced himself to step into the darkness then. 

His feet followed the path of the tracks. It was pitch black inside, literally to the point that he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He didn't feel alone, though. Or scared. Memories raced through his mind like a movie playing over and over again. A scared and frightened Mikey stumbling from the bushes along the side of the road the first time he had met him. Mikey's chilling and sad recant of Helen's death. The amazement he had found being so close to the trains at the switching station. 

Mikey breaking the hands off of MacLeod's antique clock. That one made him smile. The look on Mac's face had been priceless. 

_Mikey's going to see the King of Trains._ Those words ran over and over in his mind. He could feel the tracks beneath him starting to vibrate and saw the dim light in the distance. He knew the train would be here soon. 

_Beat the train, Richie. Beat it_

Those soft words seemed to echo through the tunnel. He stepped off the tracks then and moved to the stone wall, pressing against it as the roar grew louder. It was the same stance he had taken the day Mikey died. 

"I'm sorry," Richie whispered to the blackness. "I'm so damn sorry, Mikey." 

The train was nearly on him now and the roar was so loud he thought his eardrums would explode with the sound. But somewhere over the noise he heard the childlike voice of Mikey Bellows' reply, "I never blamed you. . . ." 

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Miranda stood a safe distance from the tracks, watching as the last of the cars roared past. With them they seemed to take some of the gloom and darkness from this place. 

"Good-bye, Mikey," she called to the last train car. Two sets of headlights appeared then and she watched as a black T-Bird pulled directly beside the tracks, Declan's rental car stopping behind it. 

"Where is he?" Duncan MacLeod demanded as he climbed from the classic car. 

She nodded towards the tunnel, stating, "In there." 

"But the train just came through," Declan began, taking a worried step towards the blackness. 

Miranda moved to him then, giving him a gentle push back towards his car. "Let's go back to the hotel, Declan." 

"But--" 

She cut him off by holding up a hand, repeating, "The hotel. There is no story here." 

"Are you sure?" Peggy inquired. "A lot of things don't add up." 

Miranda glanced towards the tunnel, thinking about this night. She had met an Immortal. A man who couldn't die or age. A person who claimed that his best friend was really a four-hundred-year old Highland warrior from Scotland. What Declan wouldn't give to know those things! 

But at what cost? Richie's safety? His life? It was a dangerous world he must live in. He didn't need attention being drawn to him by both mortals and Immortals alike. He would hate having his name plastered on the front of every trash magazine, his face stuck in between a picture of the three-headed monkey and the alien child. And it was such a beautiful face. . . 

She turned back to her friend then, telling him a conscious lie as she insisted, "There's nothing weird here. No mysteries. No miracles. Just a terrible accident and a man who lost a friend he still mourns." 

Declan gave in with a nod, sliding back into the car and waiting for Miranda to gather her bike and follow him and Peggy back to the hotel. 

Dawson watched them leave before reaching for the headlights of the T-Bird and flipping them on, their lights blaring into the tunnel and lighting it up. He wasn't aware of the fear and dread of what he might see there that had twisted his gut until that moment. He nearly sank to the ground in relief when he saw Richie Ryan. 

Duncan MacLeod was barely inside the tunnel, carefully feeling his way along the stones when the lights had appeared and gave him a clear view. He, too, breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his student and friend, alive and safe, sitting on the ground. His back was to the wall and his knees drawn up. His arms were crossed over his knees and his head rested against his forearms. He jumped in surprise when the bright lights flashed around him. 

Richie held up a hand to ward off the glare that hurt his eyes and Duncan noticed for the first time the tear stains on his cheeks. He took several steps closer and the presence of the young Immortal touched him then. That was the most comforting of all to him. To feel Richie's Immortal presence just confirmed to him that the younger man was still among the living. 

He moved to his friend, sitting down beside him on the hard ground as he admitted, "I wasn't sure if I would find you alive in here or not." 

Richie wiped the last of the moisture from his cheeks. He had never made a practice of shedding tears in front of the Highlander. He studied the ground under his feet before replying. "You thought I was going to do what Mikey did?" 

Duncan released a heavy sigh, resting a hand on the young Immortal's shoulder as he stated, "I know this isn't easy for you, Rich. I wish I had magic words to make this better, but there aren't any. We live in a harsh world. We never get use to it, though. The killings, the death, the regrets--" 

"The guilt," Richie added. 

"Aye," the Scotsman nodded. "It is a part of our lives for as long as we live. It isn't all bad, though. You know that. Being Immortal has its perks. I mean, you get to keep these adorable blonde curls forever." 

Ryan laughed and pulled away when his friend tried to tousle his hair. "I don't have some suicide wish, Mac," he assured. "I hated what happened to Mikey. I think it was the hardest decision I ever made, leading him into this tunnel, knowing he wouldn't come out alive. It certainly is one of the hardest things I have ever had to live with." 

"We're Immortal," MacLeod reminded. "The choices for us are never simple." 

"I know," he nodded. "That much I've figured out already." 

A slight smile touched MacLeod's lips then and he stated, "Sometimes I look at you and I still think of you as that seventeen year old kid who was mouthy and arrogant and in need of someone to just give a damn about him. I sometimes want to treat you like you were still that kid. I watched you grow up in so many ways. And I don't just mean having birthdays and getting a year older and becoming a legal adult or turning twenty-one and taking you to Joe's and buying you a beer. There is a difference between becoming an adult and becoming a man. 

"The day that Mikey died, you proved to me that you weren't just a man, but you were a good man. You took responsibility and you did what had to be done. It wasn't easy and neither of us liked it, but it was necessary. And you handled it like a man. I was proud of you that day. I've always been proud of you, but especially that day. I know it sounds odd to say that about someone's death, but I was proud of the stand you took." 

"You know, we are dangerously close to having an Opera moment here," Richie warned. 

"God forbid!" MacLeod exclaimed with mock horror as he stood. "Come on, let's go to Joe's. I think he's buying for both of us tonight." 

"Sure," he agreed, accepting the hand his friend held out to him and letting MacLeod pull him to his feet. 

The Highlander ran a critical eye over his friend's attire then, noticing for the first time how ripped and bloody his jeans were. His shirt was in slightly better shape but his jacket was unsalvageable. "What happened to you?" 

"A little bike accident," he shrugged, trying to make light of it. 

MacLeod noticed the drying blood in his hair then and scolded, "How many times have I told you not to ride without a helmet! You know, when I was your age--" 

"When you were my age you rode mules, not Harley's," Richie reminded. 

"And we were grateful to have one," he assured. "It was better than having to walk--" 

"A mile in the snow--barefoot--just to find food," he repeated in a monologue, reciting the lecture he had heard before. 

"Uphill," MacLeod added. 

"Both ways," Richie finished, ducking the playful swipe his friend made at him. 

From outside the tunnel, Joe Dawson listened to the laughter. He took a deep breath of the night air, a smile drifting across his face. Mikey had found peace tonight, he knew. And so had Richie Ryan. 

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Yeah, I've got my passport," Richie assured the voice on the other end of the phone. "Well, I might get packed tonight, assuming someone would hang up and let me get back to my luggage. Yeah, all right. See ya then, Mac." 

He hung up the phone and reached for the torn and dirty clothes he had tossed on the floor on his way to the shower. Blood stains were impossible to get out, he decided, tossing them into the trash. 

He, Mac, and Joe had gone back to Dawson's bar and shared a few drinks. He had not gone into too much detail about Miranda or her witnessing his "return from the dead". It would just make Mac worry more. But Miranda was the main reason he had insisted that he and Mac take their "vacation" anyway. They had planned it when Dunn and Fowler had first started snooping around. And now might be a good time to follow through with their plans. He wasn't sure just how far he could trust Miranda with his secret. 

Not that she had any great proof of his Immortality. Just her word against his, basically, but it never paid to be an Immortal under the scrutiny of the public eye. 

He reached for his ripped leather jacket then, sighing in dismay. It had been one of his favorites. He pulled his sword from the jacket before tossing it in the garbage as well. He took a long black case from the closet and gently placed his sword in it, readying for travel through the airport tomorrow. He hated trying to clear his weapon through customs. For some reason, they never bought the "I'm an antique collector" line and they always looked at him like they thought he was an ax murderer. 

A light knock sounded on his apartment door, startling him. It was late for visitors. He made his way to the door, looking out the peephole. He unlocked the door then and swung it open, stating in surprise, "Miranda." 

"I know it's late," she apologized. "I didn't know if you would still be up." 

"Come in," he insisted, ushering her into his home and closing the door behind her. 

Miranda stepped into his apartment, her eyes falling to the suitcases that were half-packed. On the coffee table lay an open case, the lights glittering off a sword. The hilt was elegantly designed and she knew it had to be hundreds of years old. The blade was razor sharp and glittered wickedly before her eyes. 

"I'll move that," he volunteered, snapping the case shut. 

"You mentioned the sword fighting and taking heads," she reminded. "I just never. . . Seeing that sword makes it all so real to me now. Do you carry it with you everywhere you go?" 

"Absolutely," he assured. "Never leave home without it." 

"How do you hide it?" 

He motioned to the damaged coat that was hanging half out of the trashcan. "You never wondered why MacLeod and I were wearing jackets in the middle of August? It's the best way to hide one." She grew quiet then and Richie gently pressed, "What brings you by?" 

"I just wanted to check on you," she admitted. "I would have came earlier, but I had to wait until Peggy and Declan went to sleep to slip off. They might have wondered what I was up to." 

"I'm doing okay," he reassured. "And I want to thank you for everything you did for me tonight." 

She nodded, suddenly very nervous to be alone in his apartment with him. She forced her attention away from his winning smile and big blue eyes, asking, "So what happens to you now?" 

"You tell me," he suggested. "I told you a huge secret about myself." 

"It stays with me," she promised. "I told Declan that there is no story here. That Mikey just had an accident." 

The admission surprised him, but it was a very pleasant surprise. "Does he believe you?" 

"Not really," she admitted. "But he will move onto something else soon. However, he is quite infatuated with a newspaper article about an American motorcycle racer who died racing in Paris. That wouldn't be you by any chance?" 

"Guilty," he admitted. "And considering I died in front of, oh, about ten thousand people, my professional career is over for at least two or three generations. I figured I might give it another shot someday." 

"Wow," Miranda sighed. "I just realized, in sixty years I might come back here to visit you. I will be this old, bent over, wrinkled woman. But you will still be the same as you are right now, won't you?" 

He nodded, but corrected, "In sixty years, you will still be beautiful." 

"You don't have to say that," she stated, shaking her dark head. She knew she wasn't the type that gorgeous men like him where drawn to. 

"Hey, I mean it," he declared. He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up so that she could look him in the eye. "True beauty is on the inside. And you've got it to spare." 

She shyly looked away from his intense eyes, feeling herself blush at the praise. Her gaze involuntarily returned to his packing and she asked, "Where are you headed?" 

"Out of town for a few weeks," Richie replied. "I figured a vacation might do me some good. Mac and I are going to visit a friend of ours in Europe." 

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning, too," she admitted. "So I guess this is good-bye." 

"Until we meet again," he suggested instead. He hesitated a moment, but then closed the distance between them. He lowered his mouth, gently brushing his lips across hers in a tender kiss. He thought he heard her sigh, but when he started to deepen the kiss, she abruptly pulled away. 

He let her go without argument, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he watched her walk towards the door. _Looks like you're losing your touch, Ryan,_ he thought. She opened the door to leave, but turned back to him with quite possibly the most beautiful smile he had ever seen in his life on her face. 

"Until we meet again, Richie Ryan," she promised as she stepped from his apartment. 

And they would meet again. Both of them knew it. Somehow, someday, they would meet again. . . . 

**The End**

* * *

© 2001   
Please send comments to the author! 

09/01/2001 

Background by Daire 

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